Five, Four, Three, Two, One
by Mitslits
Summary: Five times Eggsy said "Fuck Me" and the one time Harry did


**One**

"Fuck me," Eggsy says, when he can actually bring himself to pick his jaw up off the floor.

Harry almost misses it too. He's already turned around and started strolling out of the pub, but he just catches it. He smirks to himself, taking a second to survey his handiwork.

Bodies lay sprawled along the floor, all of them dispatched by his hand. Or his umbrella, at least. Harry will take the credit. Moments earlier they'd all been on their feet and combat ready, and now look at them. Harry is the only one left standing.

He doesn't give any indication that he's heard, of course. His pace remains steady and sedate, as measured as if he was walking along a ruler.

The door closes behind Harry, but he doesn't think the sound of it is at all final. This won't be the last he sees of Eggsy Unwin.

 **Two**

"Fuck me," Eggsy breathes, and Harry has to suppress a smile.

He's always loved this part, the grand reveal. To be fair, it _is_ a pretty impressive sight. Still takes Harry's breath away sometimes.

Eggsy drifts up behind him, eyes drilling through the plexiglass window to the hangar on the other side. It's filled with every sort of vehicle one could imagine, halogen lights gleaming off spotless exteriors.

Harry folds his arms behind his back. Adopting a nonchalant expression, he drops a comment about Eggsy's father, knowing it will only draw him in all the more. Sure enough, the boy trails behind him as he moves on. Wouldn't want to be late.

 **Three**

"Fuck me," Eggsy whispers, and his voice is tight with anxiety.

Is it real? Is it just a dream?

Black swirls around him, nothing but a blank abyss with the sound of a mechanical heart beep-beeping away. He thinks his name is Harry.

There's the low murmur of voices. Harry can't make out what they're saying, and he doesn't care to try. He has the comfort of the void. It's warm and welcoming. He's clawed his way to the shallows from the depths of it, but it hurts up here. It's bright. Harsh.

Harry stops swimming. The black quickly reclaims him. He doesn't know anything for a long time.

 **Four**

"Fuck me," Eggsy says, the words bitter on his tongue.

There's no need for that. Harry reassures him with a few well-crafted promises about how accents don't make gentlemen. What he doesn't tell him is that it's something equally unattainable.

What _really_ makes a gentleman is the family one comes from. Dogs aren't the only ones with pedigrees. It's all a show anyways, the galas, the functions, all of it an act. They dress up and perform, all the while telling themselves that it isn't pretend.

Even if Eggsy could insert himself somewhere into the tangled roots that make up the aristocratic family tree, Harry wouldn't let him. It isn't the place for bright eyes and gap-toothed grins.

Harry intends to keep those around for as long as he possibly can.

 **Five**

"Fuck me," Eggsy mutters, staring out the front of the plane.

Revenge pulses through his veins, tampered by fear. Somewhere in there is the man responsible for Harry's death. Eggsy grits his teeth, fingers digging into the back of the pilot's seat. Somewhere in there is the man who's going to die by Eggsy's hand.

He'll be only too happy to take responsibility for that.

It isn't until much later that he actually gets the chance to take what he's due. Bruised, bloody, absolutely exhausted, and with a conscience hundreds of deaths heavier, Eggsy staggers over to Valentine's body.

Everything's got it wrong, he thinks. Victory isn't sweet. It's blood-iron.

 **Plus One**

"Fuck me," Eggsy begs, nails digging into Harry's back, legs wrapped around his waist.

It had only taken three days. Three days after Harry had staggered back into Eggsy's life for them to confess everything to each other. They _were_ everything to each other. And Harry would be damned if he let another second go by without proving that to him.

He runs his fingers over every inch of skin, exposed or otherwise. He makes music of Eggsy's moans, teasing one after the other from him with deft skill. Soon panting turns to pleading, and Harry smirks down at him.

Eggsy looks breathtaking. Sweat-damp hair sticks to his forehead, face flushed all the way down to his chest, shirt rucked halfway up, the swath of skin it reveals unbelievably inviting.

Harry dips his head to partake, trailing his tongue down to Eggsy's navel. Eggsy arches into his touch. So responsive.

"Fuck me," Eggsy repeats, a little less request and more demand. And Harry does.


End file.
